


Abattoir (or, Never Say "Cow" in a Slaughterhouse)

by hoist



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: D/s elements, Enemies to Booty Calls, F/F, Fingering, Gunplay, Imagined Body Horror, Masturbation, Medical Trauma, Oral Fixation, Stone Top Widow, Tracer Mode vs. Lena Mode, glove kink maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 08:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14233131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoist/pseuds/hoist
Summary: Lena's been working on some self-talk strategies.





	Abattoir (or, Never Say "Cow" in a Slaughterhouse)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a follow-up to this other thing but that thing is taking too long so have the weird anti-military porn first i guess
> 
> (I'm a fan of the "embedded 'anchor' + detachable accelerator" flavor of Tracer)

She takes a redeye to Lyon and then a sleepy train to Chambery. Quick coffee and pastry, people-watching during, before a twelve minute bus farther out. She rents a motorbike with cash. Cold out, but the knit cap, puffy coat, and high collar help. By the time she’s parked in the coordinates from the ciphered note, after more than an hour at fair speed, in early March, in eastern France, Lena’s kicking herself for leaving her gloves.

Huffing heat into her hands, she scrubs them together and takes in the building. Factory. Single-story around the edge but domed high in the middle -- harder to tell, there. Textiles maybe. Except for the frothy brown track from Lena’s bike, the green overgrowing the dirt roads is unarsed by any treadmarks. Nobody here in awhile. Part of the roof is swaybacked in spots and the front wall has a neglected, sucked-in cheek look, like the moment before someone blows a nasty fucking raspberry.

She laughs a little, puffing vapor.

Lena stands a minute longer in the copse near the entrance.  The bike’s engine ticks behind her, quick to cool in the morning chill, but already the dew on the grass is beginning to shrivel up. Getting warm. Lena never brings her phone to these. It must be around 9 o’clock.  

She didn’t fly across the map to practice infantry guessing games, though. Her weight shifts in her boots. There’s a nervous smirk that wants to itch its way on. Suppose she’s waiting for a chopper to drop down out of the sky, or for a swarm of shouts from behind the building, or for a bullet to come along and do some free redecorating. Bad luck. This part of France is all bullwhippy trees. Piss-poor cover.

But nothing else happens, so she heads in.

The handle cooperates. It groans a bit, but the door gives way when Lena’s shoulder butts up and light spills in. Liver-colored flakes confetti her jacket and she sucks her teeth in irritation. The gritty arthritic sound it makes, initially a whine, opens up like a great heavenly conch of bullshit as the door squeals in peals that echo wider and wider onto the factory floor -- _big!_ \-- big enough for God.

Lena peers into the dark. No faint red glow -- no little jellybeans to be seen, over. She’s here though. Like something heavy, made of ozone, draped over her shoulders, double-knotted at the neck.

And…. yeah, alright, that _one_ lamp that’s on, dangling over the middle of the floor and humming like an IED is a bit of a clue.

Lena bumps back with her hips -- grating the door closed again, shit, what a noise -- before stepping closer. She takes her time. The disc of light is a few meters wide but cleancut from the dark, as stark as if a curtain encircled it.

Lena stops just short. And waits.

A minute passes. It’s even cooler in here. There’s no real scent to the place: gentle floral of loam on the floor, overbaked glass, swollen metal smells like old sour bread. Indistinguishable from any number of gutted out buildings she’s used for cover, for positioning.

She wets her lips before speaking. “Feeling shy, darling?” The width of her voice doesn’t carry like she expects. Her brow bunches. She listens hard. Trying to hear her -- trying to place her.

Ah! A tamped-down click, somewhere to her left, out in the dark. Lena’s just about to open her mouth again when Widowmaker’s voice tolls “Step into the light,” as simple and level and intimate as a bank teller.

Tracer obliges. Not quietly, though. “Hope you don’t plan to leave me by my lonesome in here.”

Harsh lighting. Just a few meters wide. Lena could maybe fit once and almost twice again, lying down. _Harsh_ lighting: the rumples in her clothing leave fat blocks of shadow, but the color’s surgically bright where the light hits. May be a pain to look at soon. Her head shakes a little as she turns her eyes up again.

“Remove your weapons.” Widowmaker. From behind, this time.

Lena obliges. She pulls them out of her coat. Not _her_ pistols -- those are tied to records and biometrics -- but instead some standard sidearms, easy to hide beneath the bulk.  She bends to lay them side-by-side at the edge of the light, and straightens again, stepping away.

A soft rattle from overhead fills her with instant regret. She flickers back in a half-crouch as something drops into the light from the rafters. But not Widowmaker on her grapple. Instead a great curved piece of metal, like God’s own fishhook.

Oh.

Not textiles at all.

“How romantic!” Lena barks a laugh, revolted. She grins, even as her cheek peels back in a sneer.  “Does this mean I get a meal this time?”

No response. Just the hook slowing to a standstill.

“Christ,” she laughs, quietly.

“Remove your clothing.” Somewhere from the right, this time. Shit. Fast. Lena figured for sure she would have to be in the rafters.

But Lena does so. The knit cap and coat are first to go, tossed sloppily to the edge of the light. The boots take a bit more care to unlace but are kicked off too. The pants and knickers come off in one university swoop and are dropped in a pile on top of them. Never much for a striptease. Lucky. Got a taste for utility, the both of them.

The accelerator stays of course. Of course. But it’s her more streamlined set-up: sans the field performance plate and most of the bulky backing. Lena still has to have it partially detached to shuck off her undershirt and button-up, but it’s a shimmy she’s gotten much better at, along with dressing for the occasion in general. Even _if_ she still overlooks folding her things.

There. Naked, Lena’s chilly again. She gazes out into the dark. Tension wants to press in like a crawlspace but she leans into it, patient. Her ear is tuned for the comforting rhythm of _command-obey-command._

She licks her lips.

And. She waits.

Her eyes can’t seem to decide whether to adjust or not. One moment she can make out the tall and broad of something, some ghastly machine or structure, but then she’ll blink, and when she opens her eyes the light’s blotted it out all over again.

Annoying. Her forehead pinches in. She wets her lips.

“Come along, darling,” Lena goads, sugar-dusted with disdain, “you need no introduction.” She may just start without her, if she doesn’t get a getting on.

Another bundle of seconds pass. Lena takes in air to speak, and then Widowmaker comes out of the dark.

The first thought upon seeing her is _Spruce her goddamn wardrobe, twats._ The same exact wetdream suit, each and every time. It’s -- it’s very _nice_ and all, but the endless replication adds another grainy gram of unreality to Lena’s whole grip on the… this… all this. That. On Widow. The cumbersome lighting paints the chitiny leather in slabs of black and color: hard blues, bone vinegar, necrotic-cartilage-gold like a sarcophagus. Her heels scarab-click against the floor, and as she steps closer, the stained-glass angles of leather and light set to gnashing.

Tracer’s teeth tighten, too. She bites down a bump of panic. And the impulse to blink away. Much easier to do so when she’s not so damn _abrupt._

“You will not touch me.” Wasting no time whatsoever. She circles behind without breaking stride, shark-smooth, and a little pop of adrenaline has the hairs on Lena’s neck cranking high. “You will not speak my name. You will not speak. You may only make noises.”

There’s an awkward pause where it seems Widowmaker processes how that sounds. Lena’s ears flush. A dumb grin ticks at the corner of her mouth, too, at the thought _She likes my noises._

But the moment passes. Widow recovers. She produces a length of thick cord from the holster at her hip, and turns to Lena. It’s the first eye contact of the session and they’re animal-yellow in the light.

Widow glances at the hook, then back to Lena. Expectant.

… _Oh._

Lena balks, fullbody, and steps back with her palms crossed. So much for command-obey-command. “Fuck off with _that,_ mate.”

Widowmaker stares. It’s not a warming experience.

But Lena’s undeterred. Her arms fold, braced under her accelerator. She can feel the sodapop buzz of ionization ramping up in her body cavity as her vitals escalate, ready to bend time or cheat death as needed. “I’m not getting unarmed _and_ nude _and_ trussed up with no kind of handicap on your end.” Widow’s bracer and grapple are missing, and her rifle’s nowhere in reach, but her other bells and whistles are still strapped. “So do us a favor and stow the jumprope.”

She nearly adds something smart about taking back her dirty laundry, but the words stick to her teeth. She waits instead. Her lips are abruptly dry. She doesn’t wet them. She just watches.

It makes her think of that cheap aquarium that went up nearby when she was a kid. Far too hasty an operation, trying to money-grab the influx of families that boomed in London after the Crisis. Lena got to visit once before it was shuttered. The glass lining some of the tanks was caked on lopsided, bending light like a funhouse, and the water looked thick and ill-treated. Lena remembers the strain it put on her eyes to peer in at each exhibit. Through the glass, through the water, through the dark, trying to make out the shapes of things.

Watching Widowmaker is something like that.

She is still, and silent. Tracer too. They watch each other. Nerves nibble. Maybe the good will has run its course. Maybe this is the last time.

A ripple of goosebumps queue up along Lena’s arms. If so, what then? What comes next?

Tracer is already shifting her weight to slowly -- _slowly_ \-- reach for her clothes, when Widowmaker carefully -- _carefully_ \-- speaks again: “You will grip the hook with your fingers.” Like she’s avoiding invisible corners in the words. “But,” she interrupts herself, back in her typical industrial tempo, “you _will not_ move your hands.”

Quiet falls again. She can smell leather. Lena looks from the hook, coiled like a question mark, to Widow, and back again.

“Alright,” she says, like she has to chew it. Then more certainly, “Yeah, alright.” Decent compromise.

She steps forward, smuggling the relief off of her face as best she can. It kind of works. But as she reaches to grab hold of the hook, already considering the best position to employ with the awkward curve, Lena finds Widowmaker still blocking her. She blinks. “Something else?”

One perfect goddamn eyebrow slants like an upturned table as Widow glances down.

Lena’s socks are still on.

She scowls, ears heating. “Floor’s fucking _freezing_!”

Widowmaker does a decent job of concealing her disgust as she steps aside. Damn right.  Lena soldiers on with her mutinous, albeit pink expression, and threads her fingers around the hook. Chilly. Smooth. Tetanus-free, with any luck. Just a hair too high. She’ll have to alternate which foot gets to have its heel on the ground.

“If you don’t like it,” Lena sniffs, “pick a place with carpet, next.”

“We will begin now.”

Her mouth snaps shut so fast her teeth nearly click. A wave of nerves pour in. Better nerves. This is her favorite part, in a way. She stares out into the dark of the open floor and waits.

The first touch is a simple crown of hands on her hips. Cool touch. Cool skin, through cool gloves. Fingers curled gently. Not even moving. Just touching, there. She can feel her bodyheat being drunk in by the leather.

The chain creaks.

Then just the fingertips, petting, a centimeter back, and then forward. Lena shivers. Yes. Good.

The touch becomes pressing. Still careful. Still soft. Shit -- it’s almost polite. Thoughts of cosmetic stalls in shopping malls with eggshell waif salesladies come to mind, netting the unwary in conversation and product applied without request. Decent backup plan if this little hookup habit ever blows up on either end.

Lena almost puffs a laugh but it comes out a quavering breath, instead, as she feels Widow’s fingers dig. Not painfully. Just enough to dimple the soft skin between her hipbones and navel. May as well be a typewriter there for the little _ting!_ that goes off.

Lena wets her lips. She shifts her weight.

And: yeah: there’s Widow’s breath. Against Lena's neck. Her mouth must be centimeters from the skin. And maybe it’s been just a week too long because even _that_ is enough to force Lena’s chin dipped low to her chest, riding a shiver from the silky douse of dopamine.  

A brush of air comes out heavier than the others, fuller. Widow’s laughing at her. Fuck. The room’s less chilly.

Lena shifts, and the chain clinks.

The hands leave off altogether. It’s almost warmer that way. Widow’s body is like a heatsink, always, quietly sucking in whatever life is offered up. But it’s incidental. Not something she tries to leverage. She’s even looked apologetic about it. Even now, when her hands return, it’s with the same caution as a cat on ice.

The gentleness confuses, sometimes. Crosses Lena's wires. To see her, to watch her, to know at least in part what went into making this woman-weapon-thing. Corpse-cum-cuttingboard-cum-Kalashnikov. Hell. It just puts certain expectations in mind, is all. To know her hands -- how they've plugged many a head with an afterdinner mint of the .950 variety -- and to feel those same hands, now, stroking along her waist, and the fluff between her thighs --

Her chin dips away from the thought and she shivers. Lets her hips cant into the fondling. Enjoys it. Like, it’s not like it’s _bad --_ Christ, there’s a reason she’s here in the first place. It’s just a bit confusing. A more whimsical mind might compare it to bedside manner.

Again, Widowmaker’s hands disappear. Lena sucks her teeth in irritation.  With the sensory rug pulled from under her she’s back in the chill. Her eyes slip closed against a memory: nestled in the bed of a pickup and watching the ground pass below at a hypnotic clip, sunny, shoulder to shoulder with other RAF cannon fodder, heading to some field exercise. Someone joked that you just “need to run really, really fast!” once you land.

Heels click. The sound brings her back. Her fingers tighten around the hook.

A heatsink, but a static field. She radiates with it. Lena’s spine actually makes a curve to port and bow, unasked, pushed away by Widowmaker now pressing in at her 4 o’clock. Like two like magnets getting too close. The new position has her pulse pistoning. Shit. It’s almost easier to have her right behind. Here Widow can see too much. The attention weighs on Lena, claustrophobic as a bodybag, even as it cranks up the pilot light in her belly.

 _Tell me what you’re gonna do,_ Lena thinks, very hard. Her throat buoys in a swallow. _Say something._ She still won’t turn to look at Widow though.

Lena yelps -- oh, shit! -- and nearly jackknifes out of her skin at a hand on her tit, now ungloved. Not sure why.  She sucks in a breath and uses it to snicker through her nose. Why did she do that? Silly. The touch feels good. And the chill is no surprise. She knew to expect it.

 _I want it harder,_ she realizes, abrupt as a dropped knife. She wants it to hurt.

She exhales. It comes out rumbling.

The hand had paused at her outburst, but relaxed at her laugh -- and now it moves again, careful. Cold touch takes up the soft weight of her breast, the nipple immediately tight enough to ache.

There’s no real direction in the movements. Just idle touching. Still feels nice.  Nice enough. The fingers press together in a slow squeeze -- or a languid stroke -- setting off little patches of warmth in her chest. Lena hums in her throat. That’s… yes. Good. She shifts, a little embarrassed at the flush of heat in her neck.

 _Relax, bint,_ she thinks. That’s the whole point.

Tracer’s eyes close as she focuses on her breathing. Keeping it gentle and level. Another hand settles on the dip of her back, still gloved. It's nice. It’s always nice, even when it isn’t.

Touch. Being touched.

She twitches. The chain clinks as her grip tightens. The hand on her chest keeps its Sunday pace, rolling, pressing, teasing. A pinch has Lena sucking her lip into her mouth. She huffs. Another pinch, firmer, has her eyebrows drawing in, along with the the sudden realization that Widowmaker has been watching every single expression on her face in profile. Shit -- that’s got Lena burying her chin in her shoulder opposite, pleasure and anger braiding a fist in her mouth.

“ _Fuck,”_ she spits. Heated and thick, like chewing tobacco.

And freezes as she realizes she’s broken a rule. Oops.

She licks her lips against the quiet. Waits for a cruel twist of flesh, or a clip to the back of her head. An irritated noise, at least. But none of them come. The fingers pinch, lazy, and Lena swallows a confused moan. Not a complaining one. The hand cups her, nails teasing, and she titters. Seems to be Widow finds obscenities fair, so long as they remain within the realm of the monosyllabic. It’s certainly in the spirit of what she likes to hear.

Widowmaker presses in. The mellow material of her suit presses, too, and Lena can feel the cool pull of the muscle in her thigh as it settles along her own. This close, Widow can wrap her other arm around -- both hands cupping Lena’s breasts. Still got the glove on this one.

The hands _squeeze_ (Lena _whines)_ , hard, good, far too gentle. She whines for another because it’s very nice and she can’t help it and Widow needs to pick up the goddamn pace, here, it’s _far_ too gentle.

Leather on one hand and calluses on the other. Buttery soft and bitter scrape. Lena shivers, seesawed between them. Shuffling from heel to heel is harder, now, and she squirms to settle just right -- then squirms again, clinging to the hook. She squeezes her shoulderblades together to bow her back into the touches as quiet breath clouds the hair along her temple. Humid. Cold. Her eyes squeeze shut. A nail bites _hard_ at the tender rim of her nipple, still tighter than a goddamn combination lock, and she jerks with a little cry of “ _Yes!_ ” that’s backlit with a moan.

Fuck.

Her cheek curls back in a snarl at the sound of herself but it’s worth it, it’s so worth it -- two nails take her up in a pinch while fingers twist the other and her head lists to the side with a heated whimper.

Air is harder to come by. Lena’s breastbone lifts like she’s armed with it, and the hands move lower, scoring filet mignon tallymarks along her belly. Lena heaves. So good. Her back curls in an arch, more and more, lifting herself on the meathook, pressing more Lena into Widowmaker’s touch. Enough that if Widow so chose, she could -- could sink her fingers under the overhang of bone, that bottom shelf of rib.

 _Harder,_ Lena says with a hiss, with her body. She huffs. Tastes acid. Wants pressure. Wants a riddling of wickered nerves and a fruitbasket of bruises.

She flinches at nothing; she licks her lips.

Vaporous fantasy of those fingers sinking into her skin like nougat. The jailhouse grooves of her ribs like a textured handle, perfectly shaped for optimal grip, not much different than squeezing a trigger -- hook and tug -- crack and pull -- Widow can butterfly her ribcage wide until the anchor drops out like overripe fruit. Give her lungs more room.  

The thought's as lurid as a neon sign. And as easy to turn away from. Lena's stomach roils, unpleasant and not.

It’s like this for her. The interruptions. It’s not supposed to, Lena thinks. She’s pretty sure. Touch. Being touched, like this. It makes Lena very small, is the thing -- it slots her brain someplace normally sectioned off to her -- some strange trapdoor in her head where feeling good and feeling bad seem to mean the same thing.

It wasn’t always like that. She doesn’t think so.

“Shit.” It comes out between a sigh and a sob. She’s sticky between the thighs. A little queasy. Her breath feathers hot down her chest, chin dipping against it again. Chilly. The air’s chilly. She’s been sweating and failed to notice. The soft heat of her tongue runs along the knobs of her molars, and she waits.

Pressure meets her chin and Lena recoils. Hadn’t noticed her eyes closing. Her grip on the hook becomes a chokehold as she looks up.

She’s even taller with Lena barefoot. Lena comes up just under Widow’s chin and avoids her stare -- watches her neck, instead. Tries to steady her breathing and count the molasses thump of Widow’s pulse as a gloved thumb presses at her chin.

Lena’s eyes close again. Swallows. The light overhead comes in through her lids at this angle, amniotic pink.

The thumb tugs: it presses at her lower rung of teeth through the skin, and sends a cherry arc of heat boring through her jaw. Through her belly too. She lets a soft groan. Lena follows the pressure with her chin, relaxing her neck, relaxing, or trying.

The thumb tugs harder. Little starbursts of pain pepper her mouth. The groan brittles to a grunt. Lena’s eyes open. She’s frowning, confused, but -- oh. She’s biting her lip. Too hard for Widow to tug it out.

The moment she loosens up, the thumb, glove and all, slips straight past her lips into her mouth and sets off a miniature chemistry set in Lena's groin, oh _fuck._ Can’t fight back a whimper. Or a moan, when it begins a slow probe along her tongue. She shuts her eyes again as she sucks. Trying to hide how they lose focus.

Widow has this... _thing_ about Lena’s mouth. Seems to really really really really like when things are in or on or around it. Like. She’s never _said_ as much. But she’s not exactly stealthy.  It’s interesting to tiptoe around, seeing as she also really really really really hates direct contact between the two of them. At least anything Lena-generated. And _boy_ has Lena tried! Gets to suck on her fingers, here and again, but trying to nose against her bust or thighs or the cold scoop of her belly only ever wins a scowling, silent retreat.

So it’s usually Lena sticking her neck out into it first. Fingers, gagging herself, biting her belt fit to dimple the leather. Giving the toe of Widow’s boot a nice shine once. That was a good one. Worth the nast and blech just to hear the squelch of a noise she made overhead. She almost sounded human.

The thumb pins her tongue to the floor of her mouth and lockjaws her with a bolt of pleasure. The soft tissue rings sweet with it, even as the shelf of bone glows in pain.  Lena’s breath hitches. Her hips jerk, unsure if the cool touch where her thighs are slick is Widow’s other hand or the room.

She sucks harder, rolling her tongue over the leather. Tastes uncomfortably of meat. Greed crawls in, and Lena tests her teeth against it, not quite biting -- just testing -- and it earns a tweak that has her belly squeezing in a wheeze.

With Widow’s grip that good, one cavalier jerk to the side and Lena's head would have to follow. Sprain something. Maybe. She could do the same with Lena’s hair. Both hands. She would let her. Lena shivers at that picture: thick thighs around her head, cool flesh against her mouth. Gloved hands yanking Lena's hair at the root, like she's part of the yardwork.

Shit. Lena laughs, watery, nervous.

A quiet sigh. Not Lena's. She cracks an eye, and gets a glimpse of Widow, rapt, watching her lave her glove with lips and tongue.

Lena's eyes slip closed again.

Widowmaker. Christ. Lukewarm leftovers of a woman. Lena’s never seen her undressed. Only knows bits and pieces of what might be, there. Maybe a seismograph of scar tissue underneath the lycra. Imagine. Scored like a kennel floor, all over -- sutured-up welcome mats from steel bone grafts, spinal implants, rotorized joints -- maybe a gutted out digestive tract replaced with a glucose pump for those pesky five-day stakeouts. Topped off with a nice stiff tumbler of formaldehyde. And all that even _before_ they twirled her gray matter around like a goddamn forkful of pasta. Whatever’s going on under that suit, Widow has no interest in sharing.

(Maybe they even closed her off downstairs. Somehow.) Christ. Something wrenches in her chest. Whatever sick kid proposed this for the science fair didn’t even have the decency to let her get some harmless fucking jollies.

 _And what about you?_ The thought works around her head as she works the thumb in her mouth. _You’re better off?_

If Widowmaker is last night’s, what’s that make Lena? Chunder? Backwash? The only thing keeping her on this page of the book is the big fuck-off meat thermometer permanently cuddling her lungs.

 _Yes,_ she thinks back, finally. But it takes awhile. _It’s different,_ she thinks, very hard.

Lena’s is helping. Lena’s is keeping her here.

 _Although,_ and the thought is back, and it’s a bad one, hard to squash as a silverfish, _though, the reason you’ve got it’s the same reason you need it._

Lena crushes it. The move must leave a smear somewhere inside because her stomach turns over, filmy, tepid.

She’s jarred out of it by Widow’s ungloved hand -- it shapes over Lena’s throat, cupping where her pulse thumps like a horsetrack. Her skin hums with it. Lena swallows slow as she can and watches Widow’s mouth. And tries to quell another thought -- Christ, leave her be! -- burrowing in. This one tickles like a millipede. (Christ.) Her face stings with heat, disgusted. Humiliating! Hot in her belly, like she’s eaten spike strips. The feeling threatens to poke right out of her like barbs, like lizard skin.

Her feet shuffle -- calf cramping, yes, but also -- almost like she can stamp it out. The thought. Widow standing here, looming tall as anti-aircraft and fingerfucking her mouth like a bowling ball and all Lena can think is _Kiss me, bint!_

There hasn’t been a kiss since then.  That first night in her flat, shaking on the floor and bundled thick in her own blood. Yes of course she’s thought about it. Ad nauseam. Replayed it.  She’s thought about it a fuck of a lot to be honest with you, and no one to discuss it with.

She’s about 70% certain that Widow had every clinical intention of non-fatally attacking her then. Stake out her flat. Shoot. Threaten. Just enough to rattle the cage. Premeditated intimidation, every step of the way. And. Lena’s _absolutely_ certain that Widow had not planned to kiss her. There may not come a chance at another but she hopes so. If only to show that her technique is pretty good, when she isn’t in hypovolemic shock.

(Still not the worst _possible_ first date.) Widow’s thumb plugs up the giggle.

Her vision paddles back to the surface in time to watch Widow’s brows pinch in the middle. Her tongue is igneous-dark and flickers out to wet her lips.

Lena mirrors it, unthinking.

 _Fuck._ Her eyes close again.

A little in denial, maybe. Lena. About all this. Knows full well what _Widow’s_ doing. What Widow is working at. She’s one of those deepsea things with too many parts. She needs pressure, pressure, all the time, coming in always, from all sides, all the time, just to try and match what wants to push right out of her. Poor fucker. If the pressure inward lets off, then the pressure outward comes _out_ , in hemorrhaging earnest. It would split her centipede stitchmarks like something overcooked.

Yeah. Yes. It's what brought her to the flat that night. What brings Tracer across the map like this. The pressure, even impersonal, even clinical, even touchless, even cold, of another piece of equipment running low on direction.

It's not even what Lena wants. It's the only thing that begins to fit.

Tracer laughs, lopsided, just to interrupt herself. Dizzy. Dizzying. The rumble of it carries through the anchor sunk deep inside, the little linchpin keeping her buttoned to existence. Her throat’s thick as stew as she finds Widow’s eyes, filament-gold, and narrowed, and says without meaning to, “Whatever would I do without you, darling?”

Oh. Oops.

Too full of vertigo to have room for fear. Lena watches her. It feels like inspecting some animal’s den, unsure if it’s occupied. Unsure what by. From the hesitation Lena can track in Widowmaker’s face, she has to wonder if her own expression reads the same.

It takes a few moments to get an answer. Still no cuff, or rancor. She simply murmurs, “You will not speak,” in want of the typical venom. Almost perfunctory.

What the hell? It’s _confusing._ What does Widowmaker see, looking at her? Lena stares like she can bully out the answer. Her lips tuck down at the corner, a little seasick. It’s confusing, this part. Get back to the simple stuff.

“Please,” is what comes out, as she stares up. Still covered in sweat. She needs an ending.

Widow’s hand splays on her belly. The muscle twitches. She pets her, there.

Lena’s eyes slip shut, and she lowers her chin to angle out the light. Better this way. This part. She tempers her airflow.  It’s easier. Her eyes close and it's easier. In the dark, she’s suspended bodiless from the hook, and God, what relief.

Then a hand on her ass -- a boot kicking open her ankles -- and Widow is cupping her, _hard_ from behind -- hard at first -- icy pleasure cleaving her up the middle. Lena yelps. Chilly, callused, Widow’s touch slips along her lips in a fashion not exactly cruel. It’s... attentive. The way she touches her rifle, maybe. It sends little shockwaves of heat lower. Hamstrings tighten over Widow’s hand, and she makes an impatient sound -- long fingers weaving farther, catching Lena's eager clit in a pinch -- and Lena gasps like Widow’s stock-checked her in the gut. Pretty dumb if Widow wants her legs _relaxed._

But Lena levers her thighs wider, shaking -- as wide as she can -- and she’s rewarded with the touch slipping from a pinch on her clit to filling her, three-deep in her cunt, so smoothly neatly numbing-stretching that she’s amazed it’s not prescription.

The shock of it shuts her up.

No more water torture foreplay. Widow’s finally spurring them on -- and Lena can’t contain a giddy shimmy as she feels the glove on her belly, still wet from her mouth. It’s a star-shaped pressure along her navel as Widow presses closer, one that braces Lena’s weight back onto the fingers entering her from behind, like Widow wants to lift her.

She could, too. She’s fucked up strong. Tracer’s seen what she can break.

Widow’s moving, rearranging (a careless stroke of the glove scrubs Lena's clit, and she teakettles “ _God!_ ”) experimenting with her grip -- digging in with both hands.

There isn’t even time to call an image to mind before the star-shape slips down her front, past her clit and -- oh, shit -- and _in, in!!,_ the leather of Widow’s gloved hand tries to bully its way inside of her, alongside the other fingers. God, God, God, the stretch is an incredible treat, an incredible threat.

Lena convulses and babbles through a moan, and the fingers rearrange themselves (first sinking, then leaving, then again, all over). They shift and stroke until she’s entered two fingers apiece, one hand before and one behind. Like Widow wants to stretch her open. And she can't even ask for more in time of Widow shifting -- fulcrumming her hips under Lena’s ass -- and yes, lifting her fucking bodily, and Lena shouts as her feet leave the floor. The braids of muscle in her arms tremble at the sudden need to hold herself upright, balance now juddering between her frantic grip on the hook and where Widow is fucking her.

It’s better like this. It almost _hurts._ Right at the threshhold of pain, all her weight bearing down where they meet, but Lena wants more -- more fingers, more force -- more Widow, wrist-deep -- the pleasure severing -- thick enough to cripple. Widow can reach in and pull out whatever she likes.

She could. And Widow could just keep pulling and pulling. Where she’s got her, forward and back -- they wedge inside and stroke her clit and roll along her lips, the feeling delicious, dreamlike, oppressive, but Widow could instead use those hands to pull Lena apart. Even if Lena can let go of the hook, there wouldn’t be a whole lot she could do.

(Except blink away. Or recall, if anything happened.)

But there wasn’t a _whole_ lot Tracer could do, really, if Widow _really_ wanted to pry her open. Cleave her, bottom to top, like firewood, like a peach. If she just kept pulling and pulling. Tracer shivers.  What would give out first? Which part? By how much? Would her pelvis snap before her skin split?

Nerves ripple in a cartographic swirl. Warmth fills her mouth, and leaves it as a sob.

Widow’s hips -- wide and sensible, delicious to look at -- rock forward in a way that has Lena unsettling and resettling on her fingers with convenient violence and circuitbreaker pleasure, “ _Please!_ ” wrenched from Lena before she even knows it’s there, and feeling the draft of Widow’s teeth grazing her shoulder -- teeth only, no lips -- Lena’s foot has kicked out, unbidden, partly to keep balance and part to defend herself --

“I --” -- too fast, but _good! --_ her breathing shallowed up to her neck like tear gas hazing, noosed beautiful, climax bearing up from underneath like an engine malfunction, “ -- fuck _fuck_ \--”

She comes hard, crying out, curling toes, and the second she’s really begun to enjoy the feeling Widow just. Drops her. Lena’s grip on the hook crumbles and her knees go out like pudding and she spills to the floor, knees and palms skinned, sounding injured, dopamine frothing whitewater pleasure. Rocking against her cupped hand, dipping into herself, wetter than a crimescene, riding out the last, oh Christ above, liquefied in places. Fuck if Widow doesn’t like. Sweating. Hot, hot against the cool floor. So nice. Her cheek presses against it. Heart suckerpunching, pianowire twitch in her hip. In her thigh. Shivery.

Widow seems content to let her enjoy. There’s no snide comment as Lena’s chest heaves, hardly caring to catch her breath. Let it come back on its own. Can take its sweet time. Well-earned. Filmy afterglow, settling.

Lena clears thickness from her throat. Her bangs are plastered against her sweaty forehead, cheeks baked dry from her flush.

A boot nudges against her side. Not in a kick. A suggestion. Tracer pauses. Then rolls onto her back, accommodating.  Maybe she’s a pushover for pretty women on a normal day, but even moreso after popping her cork.

A little grit cakes her lip from her tumble, and Lena wets it, grimacing at the crunch on her teeth. Doesn’t bug her for too long, though. She eases one hand behind her neck, bracing, and lets herself lounge like she’s on the sofa. Pleasantly melted on the floor. Oh, lovely. She catches the last glance that Widowmaker sweeps over her body, just as she turns and steps back into the dark.

Lena’s eye sweeps, too. That last stride out of the light shapes her back, ass, and thighs into a tempting treble clef.

No laugh from Lena this time. She almost purrs, tracing a thumb along her tacky thigh. “Like seeing me this way, love?”

“ _No_ talking.”

Ah, yeah. Oops. Always a hard one for her.

Lena relaxes a moment. Just basking. Oh, good. Settling a bit, she can feel where her knees and palms are scalloped pink from the tuck and roll. But it’s almost nice. Like a  quirky counterflavor, balancing the oxytocin. Both of them nice. She rolls the feeling of it along her synapses, like she’s toweling off.

She shifts her hips, and sighs. Even breathing feels good.

What next? She wonders what Widow has in mind. Not that _Lena's_ in any rush. She giggles. Just curious. Widow enjoys her body, they both do, but surely she doesn't want to admire it from afar for the rest of this. Maybe she's just nipped over to grab her rifle. Taking a breather, like. Plans to watch through her scope from the rafters. Maybe mop her brow with a hanky. If so, it's definitely a purple one.

A grin tickles Lena's chin, and she lets it. 

Her own touch is a little dusty, but still pleasant as she pets the back of her knuckles along her breast. It's not a favorite move of hers. When letting off steam, she tends to shy from her chest altogether -- the anchor's too distracting -- but if Widow  _is_ drinking her in down the barrel of her scope, Lena wants it worth her while. 

With both hands, now. Slow. Layering touch along her waist, along her hips, her thighs, like she's undressing again. It's mostly nice. She can see why people do it on their own. Or with a lover. But now Lena's distracted herself, trying to recall the last time someone else undressed her. 

That sours it a bit. Her hands come back to her side, and Lena tries to think loud enough: _Tell me what you're gonna do. Tell me what's next._

No answer. Of course. 

Lena laughs.

She pauses, a few seconds more. Just in case there’s something to wait on. If nothing else, these little trysts have made her more patient than the team would ever expect.

That gets another snicker, breathless. Her hand comes up to scratch her chin. Then she reaches down, matter-of-factly, and begins to stroke herself.

The first touch is almost too much -- still a bit sensitive. She hisses. Everything is _full._ She can feel where Widow’s glove has rubbed her raw, and shivers. But as she works herself over again, building, steady, just enjoying, she moans, and gets comfortable. Her hips wiggle. How to position? Lena almost casts around to guess where Widow is, but loses interest in the venture. Let her figure out what she wants to see.

One-handed, Lena curls her fingers inside -- a warm sound fills her closed mouth -- and presses greedily along the front wall. Her hips twitch. Good. She doesn't have the patience to take her time, though, and soon the heel of her palm is massaging her clit. The two pressures, squeezing together around her pubic bone, is enough to have her toes curling, and her knees clenching, and when she _tugs,_ her hips rock like they’re suspended from wire.

She imagines Widowmaker touching her this way. With her long, long fingers. Brows furrowed and eyes glittering like locusts, like hooks, trying to squeeze and twist and even _pull_ that bone clear out of Lena’s body like a key from an ignition.

The thought sends a crooked thrill of pleasure and she moans, choked low.

And then another, right behind it: Widow trying the same thing with the anchor -- trying to -- to pull it out of her (Christ, that’s _dizzying_ ) -- and Lena jerks back from the thought like it's a buzzsaw, sickly giddy.

Awful. Christ.

But they’re past that, now. That kind of thing. Mostly. Widow still shoots and Tracer still chases but there’s this unspoken… _thing_ between them, now. Widow wouldn't futz with the anchor. Wouldn't try to fuck her over that bad. And neither tries to kill the other nowadays -- not on purpose.

Then Widowmaker comes out of the dark. She has one of the pistols aimed at the ground and Tracer is already at her feet, ready to blink. It’s like her train of thought's jinxed her. Widow freezes, and it makes Lena freeze, too.

Her expression is strange. Hesitant. Her finger’s over the guard, not the trigger, and it’s almost as though she’s shielding the gun with her body. Like she’s taking pains to let Tracer see it’s not aimed at her. Her eyes hold. Then they flicker down to the floor, and rise back again.

... Oh.

The request falls into place. Tracer relaxes, which means Widow relaxes. They watch each other. Tracer's chest goes back to heaving, but quietly. A few more seconds pass before Widow takes a small step closer, and Lena snaps “Stop.”

Widow does. Eyes like cleaning supplies, Christ. Not even blinking.

“Empty the clip.” Lena's tongue flickers out, wetting lips. “And toss it in the dark.” The tone comes out more chiding than she means.

But Widow does so. The lightness might make it a less convincing prop for her purposes, but like fuck if flipping the safety is going to cut it. The quiet swells enough to hear the lightbulb chittering. They watch each other a moment longer, terribly ill-matched, like one spooked horse trying to placate another.

Until the moment passes. Tracer exhales. “Alright.” She falls back, and again sinks flat to the floor. “Right, yeah.”

She’s only a speck surprised when Widow doesn’t wait. She moves quick but careful, like Lena might change her mind. Wary. It’s almost cute. Lena begins to muse how Widow will manage to get back into the rhythm when she feels the gun underneath her chin.

Bent at the waist, and towering at Tracer's side, Widow spreads her legs -- Lena can see where her thighs meet, beneath the material -- and delicately places a boot on the far side of Lena’s chest. The motion belongs in an art gallery.

A cloudburst of arousal dumps over Lena’s head. She wheezes. Fucking bold. “Christ.” Widow looming over, all a goddess -- Christ. Heat shivers at the power in it. Lena swallows air, and sinks her fingers deeper into herself, reeling.

Impossible to take her eyes from the crux of Widowmaker's legs. Imagine. Thick thighs, something soft. Tracer licks her lips. When she does manage to tear her gaze away it’s to Widow’s face: chin drunk back, aristocratic, with a full calligraphic sneer.

Oh, _darling._

Lena’s hips rebel against her own touch, already close. More weight -- heel _sharp_ \-- digging into the soft flesh -- and Lena writhes, drinking in air like she’ll never need to breathe it out again. “Yes,” she whimpers, “Yes, yes --”

The muzzle comes up under her chin. It’s odd to say that it feels shy -- Widow is crushing Lena underneath her heel, for fuck’s sake -- but it’s something done, so, so carefully, like the pistol’s fabergé.

They can do so much better.

Still sinking onto her own fingers, Lena reaches with her other hand: she grabs the barrel (slowly enough to keep Widow from snapping her wrist) -- and pulls it closer, and wraps her lips around the muzzle.

Widow makes a noise like an entrywound. Maybe. Lena's eyes have closed. There's the whisper of Widow's suit -- she must be moving -- until she’s no longer pinning Tracer’s chest with her heel. Instead she goes down to one knee directly next to her, curling in like stormcould, and grabs a fistful of her hair.

Oh, lovely. Lena writhes. Pistol stuffed in her mouth and fingers stuffed in herself, moaning around the muzzle. Pleasure spreads from her scalp where Widow is steering her, nails digging evil, and Widow mutters to herself in low, watercolor French. Who knows what. Lena steals a glimpse of her (vision _swimming,_ has she been _crying?_ ) and sees in her face only dim, bloodless, hermetically sealed hatred. Her only kind of passion. Straight off the shelf. Nothing personal. Like Lena could be any collection of disassembled parts, left to cool here on the floor.

Lena writhes against herself, and her tongue runs along the muzzle in her mouth.

Widowmaker. The brain work they did on her. Pleasure only when she kills. Must be thinking of Tracer getting her rocks off just as Widow blows her head clean off her shoulders -- ice the floor with her brains, like something overripe. Christ. There’s a French joke in there.

She wants a finish. It’s building in her now, but different -- fuck -- is it Widow watching her? Seeing her? Staring up in her flat yellow eyes, like bowls of bad soup du fucking jour? Her stomach threatens a tantrum. Teetered tentative on a wall between perfect complete physical _presence_ like she hasn’t had in six years and being backwashed into it, into that, every part and particle of her pinwheeled sticky in the gears of temporal teeth: chewed and chewed, chewing chewing: unzipped at the spine and the cellular level: unbuttoned: unstitched: pulled apart: here and not: solute as boullioun, molecule roulette: dragged crying, and screaming: into ghosthood, into godhood: nothing to fear, nothing hurt, there _was_ no Lena, not really --

 _Not now._ Not ever but not _now_ , not _now_ most of all, not ever, hot metal paints her frontal lobe as her teeth take off a morsel of lip pinned grounding against the gun and thank God for it. For the blood.

Her teeth grate against the muzzle as she crests, not quite there, but releases quickly -- Lena’s curling up and needs to roll onto her side, her hair twisting in Widow’s hand -- her lip snagging on the way out and syrup-bleeding but Tracer doesn’t mind -- doesn't care -- she’s squirming and shaking in delight, climax like one beautiful, fullbody stranglehold. She takes air in gulps, the anchor sticking like a girder in her diaphragm, and it’s so _fucking good --_ all of it -- the side of her skull clunks against the floor as her back bridges -- yelps at the impact, thick -- shaking -- staccato little whimpers that sound off in a monotone, like an alarm going off, like some machine trying and failing to reset.

It’s good. It feels good. It is. Does.

 _ **This** is good, _ she tells her brain -- tries to -- tries! -- like she’s forcefeeding it marquee letters:    _**This** is good. _ Teeth clamped in her lip, thinking hard. 

The strings in her belly aren’t quite done before she’s rolling, curling onto her other side -- not caring what Widow might think. She lets her arms cross over her chest, catching her breath. Tilts her head against the floor. Hums. Sighs. The accelerator hums, sighs back. She swallows. Buries her nose in her own palm and nuzzles. Cheeks baked nearly dry in places, salt all over. Sticky as a carnival.

She lies there, pretending.

It might be a self-hug, so? Fuck off. Fuck what Widow thinks. The chemical reactions going on are undeniable and so what if it’s easier to just play along. And Lena’s always been the snuggly sort. It’s nice to picture, is all. Some other body heat. There on the floor. Being wrapped up around someone’s back. Burrowed in their hair. Or just warmth, a breath or sigh against her neck. Nothing fancy.

A laugh simmers in her throat, quiet.

Coming down now, it occurs to her she keeps doing that. Laughing during. Sometimes without any externally evident impetus. Endorphins high? Inhibitions _low._

“Is it weird that I laugh during?” she asks aloud, frowning at how hoarse she sounds. Lena clears her throat. She’s quick to add, “But like, just sometimes. It’d be weird if it were... constant.”

Widow’s got her eccentricities, too. Not like she can talk.

… Oh, right. Oops. Lena titters. How many times is that? She’s _really_ bad at that one. “And don’t get snide about the talking thing.” Lena’s not in the position to take more game. She puckers and blows, trying to puff some hair from her eye. It’s stuck in place. “I’m right knackered. You want any more of a show, love, it’s coming from you.”

No answer. She waits. Then sits up, and looks around. Widowmaker is gone.

Lena laughs. She’s been talking to the dark.

The accelerator’s weight shifts as she lies back, too quickly. Her hands curve along the back of her neck in a pillow, and she takes in a sigh that feels like it scrubs her clean before slipping out again. She floats, some. Cracks her toes. Must be after 10, now. Little sips of herself lapse into different thoughts.

It’s once she’s cold, too long on the floor, that Lena wonders if she’ll ever have sex normally again. Or maybe a cuddle. Emily liked to be the big spoon. Might have been because Lena’s anchor digs into the back, otherwise.

(Lena doesn’t mind being the little spoon.) (She likes holding on a bit more, though.)

She traces a finger along the outer seam of the anchor.

How long could this go on? These meetings. Assuming they aren’t caught by their respective agencies, that is.  Lena’s no doctor but she has some theories about Widow’s physiology. Maybe its own walk-in freezer. Cold enough to preserve. Maybe she’s like Lena and Angela, some kind of immune to age. Ha! Good company. Talon might be necessary to keep her running, though. Got to get her oil checked. Tires rotated.

A smirk aims its way on, but falls short. Lena’s eyes list instead. Haze a bit. Summoning up Widow’s tongue, black as basalt.  

In theory, these could go on until one of them dies. Or gets snuffed rather. Which of them is most likely? Lena weighs the two options. Maybe Widowmaker put down on the operating table, unbeknownst to her. Or Tracer's very own organics making sidewalk art in some backalley.

Lena skims her thumb along her lip, pasted with blood. Maybe she can get another kiss before then.

She sits up too fast, aching all over, and chirps “Call me!” acid-bright onto the slaughterhouse floor. It ricochets back at her, ( _“Call me!”_ ) and Lena laughs, small and hard.

She lies down again. She stares up into the lightbulb until it hurts, and when it does she lets her head roll to the side. And then she shoots upright, eyes hot with alarm. Her pistols are stacked, side-by-side, on the pile of her clothes: folded neatly at the edge of the light.


End file.
